


Praha

by gonfalonier



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011), Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy - John Le Carré
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 11:08:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3765871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonfalonier/pseuds/gonfalonier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The way two men stave off the cold</p>
            </blockquote>





	Praha

They're on assignment in Prague together, by request, and Bill keeps griping about the cold. The bed they're sharing is small but all the same they're Englishmen and they've tried to keep a bit of friendly distance. The walls of the of the hotel are thin, though, cheaply made, and out on the streets it's seven below and Bill isn't having it. He drapes himself along Jim's side and curls in so he doesn't seem so tall. 

Jim's always run warm. He doesn't have that pink-apple English complexion that might make him charmingly ruddy. Rather he's always a little dark, like he's been laboring in the sun, even in cloudy February. He doesn't mind. Makes it easier to hide his blush. 

He blushes when Bill's knee knocks against his and keeps moving. They're both partially dressed, Bill in a thin undershirt and briefs; Jim shirtless in his shorts and socks, hairy legs sweating under the quilt. Bill's leg slips over Jim's and Jim can hear every scrape and rustle loud in his ear. Bill's arm slithers across his chest and then Bill's nose snuffles its way into the hair above his nipple. 

"Bloody great pelt you have," Bill grumbles. "Lucky I don't skin you for it."

Jim smiles in the dark, his cheeks burning. "It's handy sometimes," he says. "And I think you like it too much right where it is to take it off me."

Bill hums, knits his fingers into Jim's chest hair. Under the blanket, he tries to weasel his freezing toes into Jim's sock but only succeeds in scratching him. He apologizes, and Jim mumbles "wotcher, now" and folds his arm around Bill's shoulders. They're quiet for a bit while Bill mouths at Jim's collarbone and Jim lies still, unsure how to proceed.

Behind the pouch of his briefs, Bill's cock plumps up and asserts itself against Jim's thigh. This is not an unusual situation. Bill is an artist; his passions are easily piqued. Jim understands. He's tactile, his Bill; he doesn't need to be touched, he needs to touch. Jim lets him touch his fill.

"What'd you like, Bill?" Jim floats the question, but Bill tells him, not unkindly, to shut up, and Jim obliges. 

With some effort, Bill shifts until he's nearly under the quilt and Jim's hand is in his hair. Bill bumps his head up like a cat seeking attention and Jim pets him, smiling. He'd been hoping to get a little sleep tonight but this is fine. His own body is beginning to respond, but slowly. He doesn't have Bill's jackrabbit responses, his body assigns its resources where it deems most practical, so unless he needs to take a piss or scratch himself he rarely thinks about his cock. By god, he's thinking about it now. 

There's never been a time when Jim and Bill haven't rolled around. They aren't lovers, Jim knows -- Bill has plenty of those already, and none of them look like Jim. But any time they find themselves alone for more than a few hours at least one of them will end up with a spent prick. They'll start with a dance, a show of pretending they're not going to touch, a bit of distance, but it never lasts. It didn't last ten minutes tonight after the lamp went off. Ten minutes and the two went from lying straight like sardines in a tin to twining around, slippery eels who very much wanted to fuck each other. 

Bill has his hand on him now, his fingers squirming into the hole in his shorts to prod and coax him. Jim’s mostly there now, thick in his clothes, uncomfortable. “Enough,” he decides before hooking his thumbs into his waistband and shucking off. He pushes the shorts off the bed with his feet. They’ll be freezing in the morning. He’ll live.

This isn't Bill's strong suit, what he's about to do. His throat is too tender, too shallow, and he usually tires of it before Jim comes. Jim wonders if he'll be more determined tonight. He certainly seems enthusiastic, palming at the thickest part and breathing hot against the tip. Who knows how long that will last. Bill is under the covers completely, and Jim thinks the humidity and smell must be awful, but Bill doesn't seem to mind. He's got his hand wrapped around now and he's tonguing back the foreskin. Jim sucks in a breath and exhales it slowly as he folds his hands behind his head. 

Unable to see who’s doing this to him, he could imagine it’s anyone -- some actress or a secretary from back home; the lithe Czech boy two doors down from them who wanders nude in the night to use the communal toilet at the end of the hall -- but he doesn’t. Bill is enough. If he could have Bill every day, he would, and Christ but Jim loves to have him. Not like this, his throat stopped up with cock, his wet sounds of effort muddled by the blanket, but free and strong and right on top of him, rocking his way to oblivion. Given a choice, that’s the way he’d always want things, but there are times when Bill likes to be put on his back or his side and fucked thoroughly, Jim’s big hands bruising his wrists in their grip. They’ll play games, power games, they’ll grapple and scrap, but when the rutting starts it’s always Bill who opens up and it’s always Jim who opens him.

Jim has let his mind drift, but a sharp cough and a rustle under the quilt brings him back around. He pushes the covers back and mutters, “Jesus, man, have some air.” There’s just enough light in the room that Jim can make him out in silhouette. A string of drool trails from his lips and Bill swipes it away with his thumb and then insists, “I’m fine. Back to it.” 

Back to it, indeed. Jim pays closer attention now. He’d like for this to be over with, not because it’s bad, it feels good and it wards off the boredom, but he suspects it’s a chore for Bill. Bill likes to do a bit of talk, he likes to put on a show, give instructions, and he can't do that now. 

Jim never quite knows what to say, himself. Lamely he offers up, "'S good, Bill. That's good. That's good." And it is good. Bill's tongue is soft as it rolls over his flesh, his mouth is hot, his hand is cradling Jim's balls. His lips are slack, he isn't sucking; he never does. He moves his head and swallows, pushing the tip of Jim's cock against his soft palate. It's all right. It's good because it's Bill.

It isn't any particular technique from Bill that makes Jim come. He comes because his body tells him to. There isn't any build-up, he just knocks his hand down hard on Bill's shoulder as a warning. Bill hates it in his mouth. Jim can't stand to see him retch. 

Bill pulls off -- "Ah. Lovely." -- and drags his palm up from Jim's balls to give him a proper squeeze before he shoots off. The fluid patters just below his navel, and to his surprise Bill mouths at it, he kisses it up. Jim doesn't question it. The man does as he pleases. 

There's another quiet interlude after that, Bill resting his head on Jim's stomach, Jim's hand in his hair. They could be lovers. 

Without a word, Bill pushes himself up, sits for a moment, then swings his legs off the bed and pads to the sink in the corner. He fills his hand with water and drinks from it and spits it out. He does this maybe three or four times and then braces his arms on the bowl of the sink, his head down. Jim watches from the bed. He has a vague sense that he's done something wrong and he'll need to make amends. 

When Bill returns to bed he takes his place again, molded to Jim's side with his head tucked against his shoulder. Jim thanks him quietly and Bill yawns and then responds, "No need. You'd do the same for me." Except Jim's never had to, and he likely never will. Bill appreciates him for other skills.


End file.
